


One Day Like This

by CloudAtlas



Series: A Safety In The End [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Multi, Polyamory, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: A day in the life of Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sharon Carter/Antoine Triplett, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: A Safety In The End [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/672662
Comments: 67
Kudos: 219
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	One Day Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightwideopen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/gifts).



> This story was won from me by the lovely nightwideopen who was my winning bid in the Charity Hawktion 2020 and requested "anything set in your Safety verse." And so this happened. 12k of of shameless self-indulgence. I had a great time writing this, I hope you have a great time reading it. :)
> 
> Beta'd by **inkvoices**. Title from [One Day Like This by Elbow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCJ7keVBj6Y), which breaks my Bon Iver streak because... this is sort of post my Safety verse, even though it's part of my Safety verse.

Bucky is woken by Natasha rolling out of bed; the dip and pull of the covers, the soft padding of her feet. He doesn’t move, because it’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to, but he smiles into the pillow at her quiet movements and at the way she never showers in the upstairs bathroom, despite the fact that Clint can’t hear her. It’s only when he hears the downstairs shower start up that he moves, turning over to press his nose against Clint’s warm shoulder and falling asleep again, smile still firmly in place.

He wakes again probably only an hour later. The room is light, the blackout blinds largely ineffective now Natasha has opened the curtains downstairs. It’s the one problem with Clint’s mezzanine bedroom; it never really gets dark, especially in summer. But Bucky has been in the Army, he can sleep anywhere, and this is definitely one of the better places. He presses his forehead into Clint’s arm, inhaling his warm-skin smell, and stretches out his toes before breathing out and rolling onto his back. Clint probably went to sleep around two this morning, although Bucky doesn’t remember him climbing into bed, so waiting for him to wake up would be pointless. Clint could win gold medals for sleeping.

Bucky gets out of bed, stretching to hear his back pop before collecting his running gear and a change of clothes and heading downstairs.

“Mornin’.”

Natasha is sitting at the breakfast bar, an empty bowl and a steaming cup of coffee at her elbow. She looks up from the book she’s reading to smile at him, turning her face towards him so he can drop a kiss on her cheek.

“Morning, James.”

She watches with interest as he strips off his sleep clothes and changes into his running gear. Even though he knows Clint wouldn’t be able to hear him if he changed in the bedroom, Natasha's habit of avoiding the bedroom when Clint’s sleeping has rubbed off on him. He showers down here in the mornings too.

“Mmm.” Natasha hums appreciatively and reaches out to grab the edge of his t-shirt, tugging him closer. “C’mere.”

Bucky steps into the space between her knees.

“Going for a run?” she asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious, gliding her palms up and around his hips to grab a handful of his ass with a grin.

“What gave you that impression?” Bucky shoots back and Natasha's nails dig in hard in response. He gasps quietly at the bright prickle of pain and smiles down at her mischievous expression. She’s not wearing make-up, her face clean and pale and open, and Bucky is hit with a wave of fondness so strong he can’t help but drop another kiss onto her smirking mouth.

“Go on then,” she says, pushing him away. “Shoo. And buy milk on your way back. We’re nearly out.”

Bucky gives her the crispest salute he can manage and Natasha’s laugh follows him all the way down the stairs.

The running routes around Clint’s place are not particularly exciting. Bucky’s three mile morning runs are not quite long enough to hit any of the major parks nearby, unlike his routes in Queens, but the exercise wakes him up and helps clear his mind, and it’s a good way to learn the neighbourhood. He waves to Old Mr Dudamel who runs the bodega on the corner as he runs past, out for his first cigarette break of the day. The man smokes like a chimney, but his weather beaten face is carved deep with laughter lines and he always has a joke or two to share whenever Bucky pops into the store.

Bucky’s never known so many of his neighbours since he was a kid and these aren’t even _his_ neighbours. Clint just makes friends with _everyone_ ; Mrs Chen at the Chinese takeout on Quincey, Lila and Michael at The Coffee Exchange, grouchy old Emmet at F’Coffee and his far less grouchy wife Debbie, Hassan at the drugstore, Mrs Robinson and Breonna at the laundromat he _doesn’t even use_. And then he just… makes sure everyone else knows them too.

Bucky had never been greeted by name in a grocery store until he started dating Clint.

“Morning, James!”

“Morning, Louisa.” He places the milk on the counter and then, on a whim, adds a packet of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “Just these, thanks.”

“Looks like it’s gonna be a fine day today,” Louisa says as she scans his items. “Got any plans?”

“Meeting a friend for coffee,” he says with a shrug, because his coffee date with Wanda is a monthly occurrence. “Then we’ll see where the day takes us, I guess.”

Clint will probably get antsy around lunchtime so they’ll end up doing something this afternoon, but it’s Clint, so it’s impossible to guess what it might entail. Anything is possible, from a beer festival to feeding ducks in Prospect Park.

“Miss Natasha and that boy of yours?”

It always makes Bucky laugh when Louisa calls Clint ‘that boy of yours’ – like Clint is _anyone’s_ , like Clint is _a boy_. She does it to him and she does it to Natasha and it never fails to give him the warm fuzzies. Partially because even if she’s wrong, she’s not _wrong_ , and partially because Clint has this force of personality so strong that people just… accept him. Even Mrs Robinson at the laundromat, who wears a crucifix and has at least three icons of the Virgin Mary on her walls, never bats an eyelid at the obvious way he, Clint, and Natasha _are_. It’s like Clint warps the world to fit around him. It’s strange and wonderful and it _always_ makes Bucky smile.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you give them my love, alright chico? And you tell that boy of yours he still owes me ten dollars.”

Clint apparently always owes Louisa ten dollars. Bucky’s fairly sure it’s a running joke, but he has no idea how or why.

“Will do, Louisa. See you later.”

“Adiós, mi amigo.”

Clint still isn’t up when Bucky gets back and Natasha is still where he left her when he jumps in the shower, though she’s brought out her laptop by the time he’s clean and dressed again.

“It’s Saturday, Tasha,” he says as he pours himself a coffee. “You shouldn’t be doing work.”

“I’m not,” she replies vaguely, not even looking up. Bucky leaves her to it for as long as it takes him make himself breakfast, but then tips his head onto her shoulder as soon as he sits down, peering shamelessly at her screen.

She has about ten different Expedia tabs open. Australia, Thailand, the UK, Italy, Brazil.

“Planning a holiday?”

She shrugs, clicking through a few more links and frowning, before pressing her nose into his wet hair.

“How hard do you think it would be to convince Clint to go on holiday with us?”

Something hot and fond lurches in his chest and he smiles up at her.

“Yeah?”

She shrugs again. “I could stand to see you in beachwear.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “I don’t do speedos.”

Natasha pouts, ridiculous and over-exaggerated. “But you have the ass for it. And the legs.”

“Mm-hmm,” he replies, “still no.”

“Ruin all my fun why don’t you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

She clicks through a couple more tabs aimlessly – Spain, Canada, Argentina – before sighing. “I don’t even know if he has a passport.”

Bucky frowns. “What?”

“Well,” Natasha turns slightly to face him, a hand coming up to gently brush his jaw, “not everyone goes on business trips abroad, or did family holidays to the Bahamas as a kid, or flew to Europe every summer to visit family friends.”

“But he goes it Iowa every summer.” It’s the one holiday Clint takes every year: three weeks in Iowa to see his mom, brother, and sister-in-law, to ‘make sure my niece and nephews don’t forget my face.’

“You can fly internally with your driver’s licence, James.”

“Oh yeah.”

He always forgets that; both that you can fly on your driver’s licence and that Clint _has_ a driver’s licence. He can’t imagine Clint behind the wheel of a car, for some reason. Maybe because he slumps on the subway the way only a true New Yorker can. Maybe because sometimes he just starts walking and will come home in the evening saying he’s found a great coffee place in Hoboken when Bucky was fairly sure he’d only gone out to get eggs.

He eats his toast, watching idly as Natasha clicks through more deals on Expedia, looking at museums in Mexico City and beaches in Australia and bars in London. Eventually, thought, it gets boring, and he switches to scrolling through his Instagram.

“Where’d you think he’d like to go?” she asks after a while.

“Hmm?” Bucky looks up at Natasha from his phone.

“Clint.”

“What about him?” he asks.

He gets an epic eye roll in return. “Where’d you think he’d like to go on holiday? If we can convince him to come.”

Bucky puts down his phone, simultaneously draining the last of his coffee, and thinks about the question. Where would Clint Barton want to go on holiday, if he could go anywhere in the world?

“Somewhere with good food, and good coffee, and interesting things to see,” he says eventually. “And I guess maybe somewhere that speaks English, because you know he’d want to talk to everyone, all the time.”

Natasha leans on the countertop, her cheek resting on her closed fist. “And,” she says, “somewhere he can hold your hand in public.”

He shrugs, eyes cutting away from her. He hadn’t wanted to say, but yeah. Clint would want that. _Bucky_ wants that. It sure does narrow down the options though.

“And I want a beach,” Natasha adds, “or at least a pool.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the speedos,” Bucky is quick to say.

Natasha rolls her eyes and pats him indulgently on the knee. “Sure, whatever you say.” Bucky glares at her, an expression she blithely ignores. “But also, picture this: Clint Barton, emerging from the surf in blazing sunshine.”

Bucky’s brain screeches to a halt.

Bucky can see him, is the thing. Clear as fucking day. Golden skin and golden hair, grinning and sparkling with salt water that runs in rivulets down his neck and across his chest, his hair and eyelashes in wet clumps. Daniel Craig in _Casino Royale,_ apart from five hundred times hotter.

“Or,” Natasha continues, “imagine – ” and in his head Bucky swaps Clint for Natasha in a tiny bikini, Ursula Andress in _Dr No_ because the James Bond franchise is a fucking _gift_ in this regard “ – _you_ , emerging from the surf.”

Bucky blinks and frowns, and Natasha laughs.

“Oh, your _face_ , kitten.” She presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’d look just as delicious, don’t you worry.”

“I burn,” he replies, trying not to pout.

Natasha shrugs. “So do I. Factor 50 is our friend.”

There’s a thump from upstairs, causing them both to look up at the ceiling.

“Sounds like someone is up.”

There’s another thump, a quiet curse, and then the entire apartment becomes brighter as Clint opens the blackout blinds attached to the skylights. Footsteps echo on the stairs and they both turn on their stools to watch as Clint Barton slowly emerges, dressed in crooked boxer shorts and nothing else, looking barely awake.

_Ears?_ Bucky manages to sign.

Clint shakes his head but steps right into his space, winding a possessive hand around Bucky’s neck and drawing him down into a toe-curling kiss. He then repeats the process with Natasha – always one of Bucky’s favourite things to watch – before mumbling, “Mornin’,” and shuffling over to the coffee machine.

Bucky wants to kiss the dimples on his lower back. It’s a problem.

“Hey.” Natasha's voice pulls him away from his very serious contemplation of Clint’s back muscles. “Aren’t you meeting Wanda today?”

Bucky glances to the clock on the microwave. “Ah fuck,” he says, when he registers the time, “and I was going to put laundry on this morning too.”

“I can do that for you. Are you going to the dry cleaners?” Bucky groans as he’s reminded of that too but nods, heading for the stairs to go and get changed. “Can you take the red dress that’s hanging over the railing? I’ll pay you back.”

Bucky waves her offer of payment away, hurrying to get changed and collect together everything for the dry cleaners: Natasha's dress – already in a garment bag, thank Christ – and his two favourite suits. Normally he’d be using his dry cleaners in Queens, but somehow these suits ended up here instead and he just never remembered to take them home again. Keeping clothing at three addresses is fucking annoying: he can never remember what is where.

Clint is perched on the counter drinking coffee by the time Bucky comes back down again, legs spread wide and gaze sharpening thanks to the caffeine. His boxers are sky blue and stretched tight over his dick, and for the second time today Bucky is reminded of Daniel Craig in _Casino Royale_. But yeah, _definitely_ hotter. Clint frowns when he sees Bucky is dressed, and Bucky watches as his eyes flick over to Natasha for an explanation before his expressions clears.

“Nice outfit,” he says, slightly too loud without his hearing aids in. He gives Bucky an appreciative once-over, taking in his tight black skinnies, battered white Chucks, and the red plaid shirt over a faded Maquoketa Caves State Park t-shirt, both of which Bucky borrowed from Clint. “Say hi to Wanda from me.”

Bucky checks his pockets for the usual triumvirate – phone, keys, wallet – and slings the garment bags over his shoulder.

“See you in a bit,” he says, pressing a kiss first to Natasha's mouth and then Clint’s before heading to the door. He’s almost there when he remembers, doubling back to the kitchen to balance the garment bags awkwardly on his shoulder just long enough to clumsily sign _see you later_ to Clint in halting ASL.

He and Natasha go to classes now, and every frustration is worth it to see the way Clint’s smile stretches over his face.

He’s only ten minutes late in the end, ducking into The Coffee Exchange no longer laden with garment bags to find Wanda almost vibrating in excitement and Viz sitting smilingly at her side. He’s dyed his hair a baby pink. It shouldn’t work but, because it’s Viz, somehow it does anyway.

“What?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting, because Wanda’s grin is bordering on manic now and he has no idea what could have brought it on.

Wanda laughs, a bright, joyous sound, and shoves her hand over the table, fingers spread pointedly. They’re heavy with rings in her usual silver and black, but nestled between them lies something different, something red and sparkly. Something like –

“Oh my God, _seriously_?”

Wanda actually shrieks, only just managing to keep it to indoor levels, and launches herself from the couch she’s sitting on into Bucky’s arms.

“Yes!”

“You’re really – ?” Bucky doesn’t need to finish the sentence. It’s enough to see the blush staining Viz’ cheeks and the unfathomably fond way he’s looking at Wanda.

“ _Yes_!” Wanda says again, giving voice to the pleased nod Viz manages in response.

“ _Guys_ ,” Bucky manages, and then, when the shock subsides and the joy crashes in, “Oh my god, you guys! Congratulations! Holy shit!”

They’re being too loud, people are turning to look, but Bucky can’t bring himself to feel self-conscious and Wanda and Viz clearly don’t care. Wanda’s clinging to him, almost shaking with joy, and he wonders how long she’s had to hold herself back. She must have wanted to wrap Viz in her arms from the moment he asked – _if_ he asked – and has had to hold off in deference to his aversion to touch.

“When did this happen?”

Wanda releases him, stepping back, but her smile remains as bright as ever. Christ, her face is going to start hurting soon, she’s smiling so hard.

“Last night,” she says, almost glowing with happiness. She sits back down, hooking her little finger around Viz’ and smiling at him so tenderly Bucky feels he should look away. “He invited Pietro.”

Bucky lets out a startled laugh. “ _Viz_!”

“I wanted someone there she could hug!” Viz says defensively, his blush clashing horribly with his hair.

“It was perfect,” Wanda says, her tone of voice brooking no argument. “It was – ” A questioning expression crosses her face which Bucky can’t read at all, but clearly Viz understands just fine because he nods and Wanda ducks forward to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. “It was perfect.”

The entire story trips out of her like she can’t speak fast enough; how Viz had taken her and Pietro to Coney Island, how they’d eaten ice cream and hotdogs and popcorn, how she and Pietro had ridden every ride with no queue so as to minimise the amount of time Viz would be standing alone – he hates rollercoasters, both because of having so many people around him and also just because he _hates rollercoasters_. How Viz had won her a dragon plushie and Pietro had won three different Baymax plushies and how on the beach Pietro had mumbled something incoherent and just… disappeared, and Wanda had turned to see Viz on one knee holding out a $1 plastic fairground ring because he’d been so worried he’d lose the actual one that he hadn’t even brought it with him.

“Please tell me you kept the plastic ring,” Bucky says with a delighted laugh.

“Of course I did,” Wanda replies, and Viz looks horribly embarrassed as she pulls an awful lime green and pink ring from her pocket.

“ _Why_?” Bucky asks incredulously as Wanda drops it into his palm. It’s so _ugly_. Surely there are prettier $1 plastic rings around?

“It’s custom!” Viz cries. “I didn’t want it to drop out of my pocket on a ride at Coney Island!”

“Let’s see this ring then,” Bucky says.

Wanda holds her hand out to Bucky, but turns to Viz. “It’s custom?”

“Obviously it’s custom,” Viz replies. “Wedding rings are always gold and you don’t wear gold so I thought I’d at least get you an engagement ring that was _you_.”

And, yeah. It’s obviously a custom ring; silver with an inlayed black band – onyx? Onyx is black, right? – that’s interrupted by a tiny, but _very_ shiny, red stone. A ruby? Garnett? Again, Bucky has no idea. It’s _very_ Wanda; heavier than a regular engagement ring, no protruding stones, pretty Goth looking. It stands out among her other rings because of the stone, but it also fits with her other rings too. Viz has a good eye.

“And I figured,” Viz says after a moment of silence, “that if you had a cool engagement ring, you wouldn’t have to wear your wedding ring and then I wouldn’t either? I – don’t really like rings.”

Wanda’s smile is stunning; so full of wonder and love that this time Bucky does look away.

He’s grinning though. He can’t help it.

“We’re gonna get rings, and we’re going to get them linked like this,” – Bucky looks up in time to see her link her thumbs and forefingers into a chain – “and I’m going to wear it as a necklace. Okay?”

Viz smiles back at her, almost helplessly it seems. “Okay.”

They continue to smile at each other, oblivious to those around them, for long enough that Bucky contemplates being the asshole that loudly clears their throat to get attention. But, just as he’s gearing up to go for it (because he can absolutely be that asshole), Wanda manages to tear her eyes from Viz to finally notice Bucky’s sad, coffee-less state.

“Oh Bucky, you haven’t even got coffee yet!” She stands as if to make for the counter. “Here, let me – ”

“Hell no, sit down.” Bucky glares at her until she does. “Good. Now you two sit tight and continue to stare at each other like love-struck idiots until I get back.”

They both blush, but neither protest, so Bucky nods once and makes his way to the counter.

Christ, little Wanda Maximoff is going to get married. _Married_. And to Viz as well. Which would make them the… third of his friends to get married? Steve first, and then Jim the year after they got discharged, and now Wanda. Sometimes Bucky forgets he’s an adult with adult friends, and then this kind of shit happens. Hell, Jim and Aiko have _two kids_ now and he’s just waiting for Steve and Peggy to tell him they’re trying. He’s honestly even looking forward to it now; if there’s anyone who’s destined to be a great father, it’s Steve Rogers, and Bucky plans to spoil those kids _rotten_.

But every time his friends hit these milestones, it always sets a little ripple through Bucky because for as long as he can remember he’s felt as though he’s been playing catch-up. He went to college later than everyone he knew, he moved out of his parents place later than everyone he knew, he got a good job later than all his friends. He didn’t have a proper relationship until much later than all his friends either and, when he did, his relationship was _weird._ Who the hell starts something with a couple? What is more, a couple who _still sleep around_?

Bucky, apparently.

“Yeah,” he says as soon as he reaches the counter, “can I get a cappuccino and a cinnamon bun and also… do you have a fancy cupcake you can shove a candle into?”

The girl behind the counter gives him a politely puzzled customer service look. “I think so?”

Bucky grins. “Could I get that too? My friends just got engaged.”

The girl’s expression morphs into excitement. “Oh, amazing! Congratulations! Yeah, of course we can do that. Where are you sitting? I can bring it over. Your coffee will just be a minute.”

The weird thing he’s realising though, he muses as he waits for his coffee, is that he no longer cares. He doesn’t care that Gramma frowns whenever he mentions Clint, he doesn’t care that sometimes Kat still tries to do her gentle mom-thing and question his motivations, or whatever the hell Kat is hoping to achieve with her strange quasi-lectures on reciprocity and fitting in. He even laughed at his dad’s spooked expression when Clint out-and-out flirted with him that one time, though he still shut it down pretty fast; no one needs Clint flirting with his dad, however jokingly. And sure, no one at work knows yet and he’s still careful who he tells, but he’s _happy_ which feels like such a _monumental_ thing _._

He was a mess after being discharged, the kind of mess you don’t even notice being until you can look back and see how much you’re _not that person_ anymore. He’s not so naïve to think it’s Clint and Natasha’s doing – he’s not even sure it has much to do with them at all, really. They’re more like the apex or the culmination, or something. Not the reward, because that sounds trashy and awful, but also… sort of? He can only really have them and be comfortable with it because Wanda and Steve and Peggy, and his parents and his sisters and their partners, and his nieces and nephews and _everyone_ helped him to this point. And _he let them._

And it means, Bucky suddenly realises as he collects his cappuccino and cinnamon bun, that he’s happy for Wanda in a way he wasn’t for Steve, or for Jim, or even for Kat, really, when she got married all those years ago. Because he no longer feels as though this good news is highlighting his own failures, or that something is missing from his own life.

Because Bucky Barnes’ life is _fucking epic_ right now. And one of his best friends is getting _married_.

“So when’s the date?” he asks, dropping down into the armchair at their table and looking at Wanda and Viz expectantly. “And do I get to organise another stag party?”

“What the hell?” Bucky mutters to himself as he steps back into Clint’s apartment. Shoes are strewn across the floor – not an uncommon occurrence, but there are definitely more than usual – and the vacuum cleaner is being used as a prop for an entire pile of clothes Bucky’s sure he’s never seen before. There’s a purple scooter, a toolbox, and a whole pile of tatty paperback crime novels, some of which are missing their covers. They can’t be Clint’s because he doesn’t really buy physical books and he doesn’t listen to crime novels, but they definitely won’t be Natasha's because she’d kill anyone who treated her books that badly.

“James!”

Bucky looks up at the unexpected voice and finds Kate peering around the edge of the breakfast bar, surrounded by what looks, to Bucky’s professional eye, to be piles of junk.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Clear out!” calls Clint cheerfully from under the stairs. “Hey look Katie, remember this?”

An arm sticks out from under the stairs holding a piece of paper and Kate squeals in excitement, jumping up and snatching it out of Clint’s hand.

“Oh my God!” she exclaims, squeezing herself in beside Clint. “Oh my God, Clint!”

Her voice drops into an excited murmur Bucky can no longer hear properly and, bemused, he toes off his Chucks and makes his way towards the couch, where Natasha is reading _Little Women_.

“When did this happen?” he asks, gesturing to the absolute bombsite the apartment has become in the time he was away.

“Kate needed something. It was somewhere in there,” she waves at the mess, “and then they got distracted.”

Another loud “Oh my God!” makes its way out from under the stairs, accompanied by raucous laughter from Clint. Bucky hadn’t realised that the cupboard under the stairs was big enough to fit two people, but then he wouldn’t have though it could fit this much junk in it either. Is that a _mannequin_? What the hell, Clint?

“How’s Wanda?” Natasha asks vaguely, jolting Bucky out of his contemplation of what is definitely a mannequin wearing a shoulder harness and furry hat.

He can’t help the grin that steals over his face.

“She and Viz are getting married.”

Natasha looks up from her book, eyes going wide.

“What?” she says, just as Kate sticks her head out from behind a pile of junk and says, “ _What_?” much, much louder.

“Wanda and Viz are getting married,” Bucky says again. “October first. You’re all invited. America too,” he adds, looking at Kate.

Wanda met Kate and America at Clint’s one time and they’ve been firm friends ever since, something Bucky is incredibly grateful for. Wanda needs more friends; a lot of her college friends turned out to be kinda awful in regards to Viz and most of her work colleagues are older with families. Perfectly nice people – Bucky’s met a bunch of them – but not really _Wanda’s_ kind of people.

“Congratulations,” Natasha says, grinning, as Kate honest to god squeals, jumping once in excitement before leaning back under the stairs and presumably hitting Clint to get his attention, if the ensuing thump and curse is anything to go by. He emerges with an armful of what looks like t-shirts, scowling.

“What was that for?” he demands.

“Wanda and Viz are getting married!” Kate exclaims before Bucky can even say anything. “Fall wedding!”

Clint brightens right the fuck up. “Aw, awesome!” He dumps the t-shirts onto the floor and pulls out his phone. “What’s a good engagement gift? Booze? A dog? Massage oils? No wait, Viz won’t like that…”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says with a laugh. “No one needs a _dog_ , Clint.”

“Everyone needs a dog, Barnes,” Clint says seriously, pointing an accusing finger at him. “ _We_ need a dog.”

“No we don’t,” Natasha cuts in and Clint, in a characteristically mature move, sticks his tongue out at her in response.

Bucky’s phone vibrates against his leg.

**Wanda [13:14]**  
Your guys are so sweet <3

“Have you all already messaged her?” he asks incredulously. It’s literally been two minutes. And why is Wanda checking her phone anyway? They’re supposed to be having lunch with her dads.

He gets three identical nonplussed expressions in response.

“Of course,” Kate replies, once again distracted by various things Clint is digging out of the myriad boxes under the stairs. “We’re polite. And efficient. Ooh, look Clint, remember this?” She pulls something silky and deep purple from a bag. “I liked this dress. I should get it altered to fit me.”

“Where’d it come from?” Natasha's book now lies abandoned at her side, curiosity clearly piqued.

“It’s Clint’s,” Kate says vaguely, messing with the material until she can hold up something that’s recognisable as a dress. “Someone at Carson’s made it for him in the hope he’d drag up with them.”

It’s a lush purple, which Bucky can see being very flattering to Clint, with a billowing skirt, no sleeves, and a Chinese-style collar. It looks unexpectedly princess-y but even crumpled from literal years in a box, it looks surprisingly good.

“And did you?” Natasha asks.

Clint shrugs. “A couple of times,” he says, only half paying attention as he rifles through yet another box. “Shittily.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “He could never be bothered to sit still long enough to get a wig or make-up put on, so it was always just Clint, in a dress.”

“Fuck off, I looked great.” Clint seems deeply engrossed in the box he’s just unearthed.

“Go on, then.” Natasha’s tone is teasing. “Prove it.”

Clint looks up from the box, blinking at her owlishly before shrugging and taking the dress from Kate. However, he only gets as far as putting a hand to the collar of his t-shirt before Kate notices and snaps out a quick, “No, Clint,” pointing up the stairs with an expression that brooks no argument. Clearly Kate has seen enough of Clint in his underwear. Spoiling everyone’s fun.

“Chuck us some sweats down will you?” Bucky calls at Clint’s retreating back, and not two minutes later a pair of sweatpants sail over the railing to land with a soft _whump_ on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “Thanks, babe!”

He changes in the downstairs bathroom before returning to the couch to lean against Natasha.

“What do people want for lunch?” he asks as he shoots off replies to various unanswered messages from Steve, Gabs, Becca, and Bruce from work. Bruce should not be messaging him about work on Saturday. Why is he even _working_ on a Saturday?

“I’m meeting America for lunch once her shift ends,” Kate replies. “We’re going to go see the latest _Mission Impossible_.”

He nods and cocks an eyebrow at Natasha.

“I don’t mind,” she replies, pressing a kiss to the end of his nose.

“What about – ” he starts, turning towards the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but the sentence is overtaken by a laugh as soon as he actually sees Clint.

He looks kinda ridiculous; a six foot three guy princessing his way down the stairs like he’s in a Disney movie. He’s _sashaying_ , kicking his legs out at each step and there’s a massive slit in the skirt so Bucky can see his boxers (which he’s fairly are actually _Bucky’s_ boxers) and it’s just… _so Clint._

“Oh my _God_.”

Beside him, Natasha chokes out a laugh as Clint gives them both a regal wave before bowing elegantly at Kate as she wolf whistles.

The deep purple is extremely flattering to Clint’s skin tone, making him practically glow, and the fabric is incredibly silky, catching the light from all angles and accentuating every dip of muscle, every fold of material _._ The flared skirt gives the impression of hips without actually giving him anything even approaching an hourglass figure, the bodice hugs his (very masculine) chest, and the Chinese-style collar somehow accentuates both the broadness of his shoulders and his Adam’s apple. He looks like a man in a dress, but a dress _designed_ _for a man._ It’s kinda ridiculous how much he’s rocking it really.

“What’s the verdict, kitten?”

Clint’s recently taken to calling him kitten, following Natasha’s lead. Bucky wants to hate it, but mostly it just makes his stomach squirm. He still attempts a scowl though. It’s the principle of the thing.

“The boxers really make the outfit.”

“Would you prefer lingerie?” Clint asks with a smirk.

There’s a vehement, “ _No!_ ” from Kate and an equally vehement, “ _Yes please,_ ” from Natasha, but Bucky just shrugs. Guys in women’s clothing has never really done it for him. Yeah, he knows: clothes have no gender and it’s a social construct anyway, but the point stands. Generally speaking, he’d much rather see Natasha in lingerie than Clint.

Clint catches his hand and pulls him up from the couch. “Not your thing?” he asks, as he draws Bucky close, as he spins him and dips him, dropping a kiss on his lips. The material of the dress is cool to the touch where it’s not pressed against Clint’s body, the skirts dragging across his legs, but it’s very warm anywhere it’s flush to Clint’s skin, his body heat bleeding through.

Also, it’s _really thin_ and, as soon as he’s upright again, Bucky pinches Clint’s nipple, which is clearly fucking visible through the fabric. Clint squirms away, laughing.

“How about you, darlin’?” he asks, turning to Natasha. “Reckon we could rock ball gowns together?”

Natasha gives him a critical once over. She then smiles, reaching to cup a hand around his jaw.

“You look beautiful, Hufflepuff,” she says, and she only half-sounds like she’s kidding. “Now you just need a little make-up to make those eyes pop.”

Clint pulls a face and Natasha laughs. “How dare you,” he says, pulling away from Natasha’s hands to pout more fully. “I’m more than pretty enough already. Plus, make-up takes too long.”

“God forbid you _sit still_ for half an hour, Barton,” Kate cuts in with a roll of her eyes. She’s been watching from the side-lines with a fond smile on her face but now she looks at her phone. “Oh shit, I gotta go.”

She gives them each a quick hug, before shoving her feet into her sneakers and heading for the door. “Have fun with the mess guys! That pile is mine!” She points to a small pile of stuff shoved under the breakfast bar, then waves and disappears.

“Fuck.” Clint looks around him like he’s only just noticed the mess. Then he shrugs and heads for the coffee machine. “Coffee?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Clint. I’m making lunch. What do you want?”

He ends up making tomato soup with an avocado, tuna, and sweetcorn salad. Not the most exciting, but Clint has failed to go shopping for a while so it’s either that or instant ramen noodles. Why Clint has avocados but no pasta or bread is a mystery to Bucky, but then Clint’s grocery habits have always been a mystery and Bucky’s long since given up trying to suss them out. It’s filling at least, and once they’ve eaten Natasha and Bucky return to the couch – Natasha with _Little Women_ , Bucky to argue with people on Twitter – while Clint works through the piles on the floor, occasionally interrupting to regale them with tales of drag shows and bar fights and random encounters across the States.

The dress stays on.

Bucky’s two hours into a YouTube hole, head pillowed on Natasha's thigh watching a woman recreate an 1890s ball gown of all things, when his sister rings, scaring the crap out of him and making Natasha jump.

“Holy crap,” he mutters, sitting up and pulling an apologetic face at Natasha. “Hey, Becs. What’s up?”

“Please ring Kat and tell her to calm the fuck down over mom’s birthday or I’m going to fly to Oneonta to kill her.”

Okay, wow. Rant time, apparently. Bucky vacates the couch so as not to disturb Natasha's reading and heads up the stairs to flop onto Clint’s bed.

“What happened?”

“Apparently because it’s mom’s sixtieth, it’s _utterly unacceptable_ that her party take place on any day other than her actual birthday, never mind that her birthday is on a _Wednesday_ and there are folks who have _jobs_ which mean they can’t just _fly across the country midweek_ , however much they’d like to.” Becca’s frustration is palpable. Bucky can practically see her back and forth across pacing her room all the way over in Seattle. “Jesus Christ, she’s losing her fucking _mind_. My new job starts that week, Jaybee. _That week_. It’s a _really good job_. I’m not screwing it up just so Kat can micromanage the fuck out of mom’s birthday because her husband lost his job.”

Something heavy and sour settles in Bucky’s gut.

“So it happened then?”

Becca releases an explosive sigh but when she speaks again, the anger has all but drained away.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it happened.”

“Ah, fuck.”

Kat’s husband Michael works – or _worked_ , fuck – for a small accounting firm upstate in Oneonta run by a husband and wife team. It was a really good job, with interesting clients and a good paycheque, but then the husband cheated on the wife with some young thing and all hell broke loose, each of them claiming the company in the settlement. So now no one gets the company and Michael is out of a job.

“Yeah,” Becca says again with another sigh. “It’s why I called you rather than yelling at her. I know she’ll calm down but – fuck. It’s still annoying.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgement. “Who knows?”

“I dunno. Me, you, and Ruth by now, probably. I reckon her brain went ‘well Michael will now be free so we can move it’ and then started with me because I live furthest away. I sent Ruth a text warning her, seeing as she’ll probably be next.”

Ruth, Micah, and little Bruno live just outside of Austin, so yeah, she’ll probably be next.

“Ruth’ll calm her down,” Bucky says, though he’s not really so sure about that.

“Really?” Becca replies, sounding amused. “More likely the three of them are at some protest or something and, if she picks up, she’ll just flat out say no to her and then hang up again.”

Yeah, actually, that does sound more like Ruth. Bucky rubs his hand over his face.

“I should ring her.”

“Nah.” There’s a shuffling sound and then a _whump_ that sounds like Becca’s thrown herself onto her bed or couch or something. “I also messaged Michael. Told him to talk to his crazy-ass wife.”

“All class as usual, Becs.”

“You know it.”

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky says, “You got the job?”

Because in amongst that entire rant, Bucky’s fairly sure she said ‘new job’, which: _fuck_ yeah. His baby sister is going to be _the best_ lawyer.

“Hell _yeah_ , I got the job! What d’you take me for? Some kind of – ?”

A godawful noise splits the air, screaming at Bucky from what feels like two inches away, and he flinches and swears, scrabbling among the sheets until he lays a hand on what turns out to be Clint’s phone. Holy crap, why is his ringtone so _loud_? Realistically, Bucky knows why, but _still_. Fucking hell. Shut up, shut up, _shut up_.

He picks up just to stop the noise.

“Hello?” he says, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest.

“Clint, honey?”

Bucky pulls the phone from his ear to check who’s calling. _Mom_ , it says. Okay, okay. He can totally have a conversation with Clint’s mom for two seconds. That’s totally feasible.

“Hi, Edie. Sorry. It’s James.”

“James! Sweetheart, how are you? You sound strange.”

Bucky lets out a strained laugh. “Yeah. I, um, was apparently almost lying on Clint’s phone when you called. It sort of scared the sh– living daylights outta me.”

Bucky is not comfortable swearing at Clint’s mom. He’s barely comfortable _talking_ to Clint’s mom. They’ve had maybe three conversations in the year Bucky’s known Clint. Not because she’s made it awkward or anything like that. Just because, unlike Natasha’s Aunt Vassa or his folks, they can’t just meet up for lunch with Edie and, for all that she and Clint speak relatively often, it’s difficult for _all four of them_ to speak together in any meaningful way. So there’s been the odd video call, or things like this where he’s picked up the phone to find Edie on the other end, but nothing substantial.

Edie laughs. “I’m sorry, dear. Is it still those Hitchcock strings?”

Bucky grimaces, because fuck _Psycho_. “Yeah, yeah it is.” He sees Clint appear at the top of the stairs having clearly heard his phone ring. He’s still in that purple dress which, in hindsight, is probably the reason his phone is here; the dress probably doesn’t have convenient pockets. “I’m sorry Edie, but I was actually chatting to my sister when you called. Can I just pass you over?”

“Of course, James. It was nice to speak to you.”

“You too,” Bucky replies. He passes the phone over and gets a kiss to the lips in thanks, before Clint says, “Hey ma,” and heads back downstairs, probably to go sit in the hallway in that ridiculous purple dress, just so Natasha can keep reading in peace.

“What the fuck,” Becca says as soon as he picks up his own phone again, “was that?”

“That,” Bucky replies, flopping backwards onto the bed again, “was Clint’s mom ringing.”

“To what?” Becca asks incredulously. “Murder you?”

“It has to be loud so Clint can hear it.”

“ _Psycho_ though? _Really_?”

“Clint thinks he’s funny.”

“Well, tell him he’s not,” Becca grouches. “Scared the crap outta me.”

“Sure,” Bucky snorts, like it didn’t scare him too. “Your complaint has been noted and will be passed on to management. Never mind that though, Baby Barnes. Job?”

“Quit calling me Baby Barnes,” Becca grumbles. However, before Bucky can fire back with any kind of retort – most likely of the ‘only if you stop calling me Birdie, asswipe’ variety – she launches into a meandering account of her interview for Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz (again) and an itemised rundown of all the major failings of her current employer (again).

Bucky settles in for the long haul.

Becca’s moved onto waxing poetic about the cute guy at the grocery store – after detours regarding The-Asshole-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, her friend Eva’s quest to become “the sluttiest gay in Oregon,” and the general failings about the local DA’s useless assistant – when Clint ambles into the room again. He wiggles his fingers at Bucky in a dorky hello and begins stripping out of the dress, which causes Bucky to make a sound he’d rather Becca had never heard him make. Oh well.

“You okay there, Birdie?”

Clint’s boxers now sit crooked on his hips and, god, he’s gorgeous.

“Yeah, fine,” he replies, gesturing at Clint to come closer. “Just got my own cute guy here.” Clint grins down at him, bending to drop a kiss to Bucky’s forehead, and Bucky hums and shuffles across the bed until he can wrap an arm around Clint’s leg, pressing a kiss to his knee in response. Clint sinks his hand into Bucky’s hair and Bucky has to physically restrain himself from groaning at the pressure.

“Ugh.” Becca makes a gagging sound. “I don’t need to _hear that_ , Jaybee. Keep it in your pants.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t _quite_ manage to keep quiet. So sue him. Clint being hot and handsy is practically Bucky’s kryptonite.

Clint tugs at his hair again, this time to get his attention.

“Hold on sec, Becca,” he says, cutting off her protests by pressing his phone to his chest to muffle the sound. “Yeah?”

“Tasha’s almost finished her book and I’ve cleared the front room. I’m gonna go drop some things to Simone and then… you wanna go for ice cream?” Bucky grins and nods. He’s such a sucker for ice cream. “There’s some stuff we can take to Goodwill on the way and Tash mumbled something about meeting Sharon and Trip in Fulton Park for drinks.”

Bucky grins up at him, his gaze travelling up the long lines of Clint’s body. The angle gives him a strange new topography and practically allows him to see up Clint’s nose. It’s unflattering really, but it still makes something burn low in his gut.

“Yeah, sure.”

Clint grins. “Mom says hi, by the way.”

“I know,” Bucky replies with a smile. “I spoke to her.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “She says hi again.”

This time Bucky laughs. “Put some clothes on, you weirdo.” He picks the phone up again, pressing it to his ear. “Hey Becs, I’m gonna go.”

“Does your dear sister not compare to a good dicking?” Becca asks, voice full of mock-hurt.

Bucky rolls over and presses his face into the covers in an attempt at escaping the words coming out of the phone. “Jesus Christ, Becs. No. We’re going for ice cream.”

“ _Oh_.” Now she sounds all knowing. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Yeah,” Bucky shoots back. “Neapolitan.”

Becca practically cackles. It’s scary how much she sounds like Peggy sometimes. “The shittiest of ice creams. What does that make you?”

“Vanilla, obviously,” he says, because Bucky is not above making fun of himself and, in this shitty sexual metaphor, he’s _definitely_ the vanilla. Natasha's chocolate, which makes Clint… strawberry?

Bucky frowns. That doesn’t sound right at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Clint laughing at him and rolling his eyes. Bucky flips him the bird.

“Well, okay, Vanilla Bean.” There’s laughter in her voice. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Yeah, Becs. Congrats again on the job. Love you.”

“Love you too, Birdie. Say hey to Clint and Nat from me.”

“Will do.”

The phone beeps at him to indicate Becca has hung up and Bucky rolls onto his back.

“What’s all this about you being vanilla?” Clint asks, now in jeans and a white t-shirt and looking just as delicious as before.

“Neapolitan ice cream,” Bucky replies. It doesn’t really explain anything, but for some reason his silly joke is now souring in his mouth. He levers himself off the bed and stretches, his back popping.

“Uh huh,” Clint gives him an appraising look which morphs into the kind of expression that means he’s about to make a really bad pun. “You’re not vanilla. _I’m_ vanilla.”

That’s about the dumbest thing Bucky’s ever heard. Clint Barton: vanilla. Yeah, right. “Uh-huh? And how d’you figure that?”

Clint grins. “Goes with everything.”

Bucky groans, because even for a Clint-pun that was bad, but somehow it does the trick; whatever weird self-loathing spiral his brain was gearing up for dissipates and instead he smiles to himself as he watches Clint laugh his way down the stairs.

He’s always impressed with the way Clint can do that; pick up tiny emotional cues and then… make everything easier. To be fair though, he’s also amazed at the many and varied ways Clint manages to just bulldoze his way through situations. It’s a weird duality that makes Bucky incredibly aware of just how cleverly Clint weaponises people’s perceptions of him. If you only met him a handful of times you’d probably think Clint is basically a loveable idiot – something even Bucky was inclined to think at first; an incredibly hot, loveable idiot – but it doesn’t take long to realise Clint is _frighteningly_ socially competent. He just prefers that no one knows it; perhaps because it lets him be _just a bartender,_ rather than someone who is _wasting their potential_.

Bucky scrubs his hand through his hair, marvelling all over again at his boyfriend, then picks up his phone and follows Clint downstairs.

The front room is scattered with bags and boxes – Bucky’s once again overwhelmed by just how much Clint had managed to fit under his stairs – and Clint himself is busy manoeuvring the purple scooter through the front door while also carrying an overstuffed trash bag.

“That bag is full of clothes for Goodwill, if you want to salvage any.” He nods towards one of the trash bags. “I’ll see you in a sec.”

“You need a hand?”

Clint shakes his head. “Thanks though.”

Bucky weaves his way through boxes towards where the Goodwill clothes bag is listing precariously on the breakfast bar. Never say no to free stuff, is his motto. Well, it’s not, but it could be. It’s probably definitely Clint’s motto, judging by all this shit. Bucky meets the eyes of the creepy mannequin, now sans hat and harness. Seriously, why does Clint even have some of this stuff? There’s a box that looks like it’s just stuffed full of old Metro cards.

He rifles through the bag, occasionally holding clothes against himself as a rough size guide. There’s a cool Kennedy Space Center t-shirt in his size that he immediately snatches, and a pair of blue-lensed Ray Ban knockoffs that he shoves into his hair. He accidentally left his shades at work yesterday, so these will make a good temporary replacement. He’s just stuffing a flower print shirt back into the bag when Natasha speaks, startling him.

“Keep that.”

“Huh?”

“The daisy print shirt. Keep it.”

He looks down at the shirt in question. “Really?”

Natasha nods and stands, making her way towards him and taking the shirt in question from his hands. “You’re exactly the kind of guy who can make this look good,” she says as she tugs not-so-gently at Clint’s Maquoketa Caves State Park t-shirt. Bucky lifts his arms wordlessly, letting Natasha play dress up with him for no other reason than it’s unquestionably the path of least resistance. She steps behind him to pass his arms through the shirt sleeves and smooths the material over his shoulders before coming around to button it up the front. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just quietly watches her fingers move, watches the way the shirt she’s wearing hides and reveals, hides and reveals the curves of her breasts with every movement of her arms.

“See?” she says, stepping back to apparently admire her work. “It even fits well.”

The black material is ever so slightly sheer, making his nipples and the shoulder edge of his tattoo just visible, but the daisy print is distracting enough to make it classy rather than provocative.

Natasha's right, it does look good.

“Keep it,” she says again, rummaging through the bag herself now. She makes a pleased sound at an enormous knockoff Chicago Bulls shirt and an even happier sound at what looks like the kind of leather biker jacket no one should accidentally lose, ever. It’s _slightly_ too big for her, but not in a way that makes it look bad.

“Where’s all this stuff _from_?” Bucky asks as Natasha makes a face at some truly alarming winter hats.

“Bet you a lot of it is lost property from the bar,” she answers, distracted by yet another pair of shades. “Then some is probably from random one night stands while the rest is probably the slow accumulation of stuff that happens when you’re the kind of person who allows half the queer population of San Francisco to crash at yours at one point or another. You know,” she grins at him over the rims of some awful pink heart shaped shades, “regular Clint Barton ways. Ooh,” she’s suddenly distracted by what looks like a box of novels also destined for Goodwill, “I’ve been meaning to read that.”

She eases a book out of the pile – _Fingersmith_ by Sarah Waters – and flicks through it briefly before scanning the other titles.

“Finished _Little Women_ already?” he asks, and Natasha nods in response. “How was it?”

“Apparently you can’t be a real woman without getting married,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“What?”

“One of the characters, Jo; she’s independent and intelligent and doesn’t want to get married but – spoiler alert – apparently she _has_ to get married in the end because _marriage_ , I guess.” Natasha frowns, then shrugs. “It’s probably just the time period, but it pisses me off anyway. She should have just continued to be a governess and porn writer” – Bucky lets out a laugh in surprise – “in New York, fuck random German professors. But otherwise, yeah, it was good.”

She flicks through a couple more books before quickly skimming through the rest of the clothes and packing them back into the trash bag just as Clint makes his way back through the door, now scooter-and-bag-less.

“Looking good Barnes,” he says, giving Bucky an appreciative once over as he collects together bags and boxes for Goodwill. “Ready to go?”

Both Bucky and Natasha jerk into action, suddenly realising that they can’t actually go out dressed as they are. Natasha disappears upstairs to put on a bra, probably, while Bucky finds his jeans from earlier hanging over the back of one of the bar stools and changes where he stands, Clint’s eyes hot on his skin. He’s slipping on his Havaianas just as Natasha appears in a cotton shirt-dress and slingbacks.

“Great,” Clint says, clapping his hands together in a way that reminds Bucky forcibly of his dad. “Those three boxes, those four tote bags, and those two trash bags. Oh, and Miranda,” he says, pointing at the mannequin. “Chop chop.”

Manoeuvring everything down the stairs proves awkward, but the Goodwill is only a block away so at least they don’t have to carry the stuff far. So it isn’t long before Clint’s dragging them both by the hand to a tiny place called _I Scream_ which turns out to be a _Halloween themed ice cream store_ and why has no one _told him about this_? There are little fake pumpkins everywhere, and skeletons in witches’ hats, and they make ice cream with liquid nitrogen using a machine that looks like something out of a 1950s _Frankenstein_ movie. It’s _amazing_.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Bucky breathes out almost reverentially, completely ignoring the fond roll of Natasha's eyes and Clint’s smug grin. He has to bring Steve here. He _has_ to. In fact…

He fumbles for his phone and starts snapping photos, pinging them one after another to Steve until he gets a reply.

**Steve (** ** _ง_ '̀-'́)** ** _ง_ [16:36]**  
WHERE IS THAT!!!!!  
OH MY GOD BUCK!!!!  
THEIR LITTLE FANGS [heart eyes emoji]

“I cannot believe you’ve _kept this from me_ , Barton,” he almost-whines, bending over to inspect the ice cream names. Vampnilla, Witching Hour, Candyman, Thriller, Blue Moon, Pumpkin Spice. There’s a Rocky Road with red marshmallows called Bloody Road and a mint ice cream with gummy insects called Witches Brew. “How _dare_ you. I thought we had a _connection_.”

He almost says _I thought you loved me_ but stops himself in time. That would be a poor choice of words to aim Clint’s way, for sure. But if Clint notices his slight hesitation, he doesn’t give any indication.

“Calm down,” he says with a laugh, “I only found them a week or so ago. Apparently this is a new premises.”

“We used to be closer to Park Slope,” the girl behind the counter says. She’s wearing a pin that says _100% that witch_ and her nametag says Spoopy Sally. She shrugs. “But… rent, you know.”

“This is the best thing I have ever seen,” he says, aware that he sounds completely crazed but not caring. A TV behind the counter is showing _American Werewolf in London_ on mute, the clock on the wall is running backwards, and the light fixtures are severed hands holding bulbs. Bucky is in _love_.

**Pegs [16:39]**  
What the fuck have you done barnes  
You’ve broken my husband  
_[Image attached]_

Bucky laughs at the photo: Steve bent over his phone, mouth open wide in delight, hands either side of his face in disbelief. He looks like a dumb happy version of _The Scream_. Oh man, he’s bringing Steve here _tomorrow_.

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary sorbet in a waffle cone,” Bucky hears Natasha say as he’s inspecting the collection of classic 80s horror posters on the wall. “How about you, Hufflepuff?”

“A Frankenstein’s Monster, please.” Frankenstein’s Monster, Bucky saw earlier, is a variation on Neapolitan ice cream. Bucky grins to himself. “Also in a waffle cone. James?”

“Everything,” Bucky says forcefully. The strawberry syrup is labelled ‘blood’ and the liquorice syrup is labelled ‘ichor’. There are little illustrative cartoons and everything. He doesn’t even _like_ liquorice and he wants to try it. “Everything, all at once. I will eat until I die here and then I’ll haunt the shop. It is my destiny.”

Spoopy Sally behind the counter shrugs again. “I’m sure a ghost will be good for business, so sure.”

“See?” Bucky says to Natasha, whose mouth is a wet red ‘o’ from her Bloody Mary sorbet. He points at Spoopy Sally. “She gets it. She _gets_ it.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Pick a flavour, James.”

Bucky picks a dark choc chip ice cream called Dark of the Night. He’s learnt not to argue with Natasha when she uses that tone of voice because it tends not to end well for him. He also makes sure to grab a business card though, taking a photo of it and sending it to Steve.

**Me [16:59]**  
_[Image attached]_  
I’m taking you tomorrow

**Steve (** ** _ง_ '̀-'́)** ** _ง_ [16:59]**  
OMG Bucky their website!  
OMG BUCKY THE NAMES!!!!

The only reason they don’t stay longer is because Spoopy Sally regretfully informs them that they close at five, which leads Bucky to the totally-correct-assumption that Clint timed this deliberately. He’d be more annoyed, but it turns out that Dark of the Night is actually _delicious_ and he can’t muster up enough ire, especially as he watches Clint and Natasha wander down the street hand in hand. In fact, he becomes so sappily distracted by Clint and Natasha – the way they fall in step with each other, the way they automatically part and raise their linked hands to let a little old man pass beneath, the way Natasha throws back her head in laughter over something Clint says – that he stumbles straight off the sidewalk and almost into a middle-aged woman in an unfortunate bandeau top waiting at a crosswalk. He mumbles an apology and hurries after them, thankful that neither noticed his sudden inability to function like a grown adult in public.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks once he’s caught up. Sadly, his Dark of the Night is now gone. He crumples his paper napkin into a ball and throws it into the nearest trashcan.

Clint shrugs. “No plan, really.”

How very Clint.

“I’m not walking to Hoboken, Clint.”

“Sharon said she and Trip were having a picnic in Fulton Park,” Natasha cuts in before Clint can reply. “I figured we could make our way over there?”

“We’re not interrupting anything?”

Natasha shoves the last of her waffle cone into her mouth before wrapping sticky fingers around Bucky’s right hand. “Nah. They’ve apparently been there hours now. It’ll be fine.” She pulls at his hand until he’s pressed against her side, Clint mirroring him on her right, which allows her to slide her arms around their waists. She squeezes, pressing her cheek against Bucky’s arm, and in return he slings his arm across her shoulders. “Plus, if she didn’t want me to crash, she wouldn’t have told me.”

“And I haven’t met this Trip yet,” Clint adds. “Gotta make sure our Sharon isn’t slumming it too hard.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “ _Our_ Sharon,” she scoffs, poking Clint’s side hard enough to make him shy away. “She’s _my_ Sharon. And Trip is lovely.”

Antoine Triplett _is_ lovely. Bucky met him once at some drinks Maria held after work one day that Clint couldn’t come to. Even though Bucky doesn’t know Sharon _super_ well, even he can see that she’s gone on him. It’s nice.

“Cute smile,” Natasha adds. “Great ass.”

“Mm,” Clint hums. “My kinda guy.” He grabs at Bucky’s ass, groping shamelessly, before using his freakishly long arms to his advantage and tucking two fingers into Bucky’s back pocket. It makes walking for the three of them a little awkward, and Bucky knows he’s blushing something fierce because _they’re in public_ , but he doesn’t complain about it and neither does Natasha.

They stop off at a bodega near Fulton Park to get drinks and snacks, and find Sharon and Trip on an honest-to-god picnic blanket under a tree. Judging by the poorly hidden empty beer bottles and Sharon’s flushed face, they’ve definitely been here awhile, but they’re in good spirits and are happy to share their _very_ nice vodka, which Bucky is deeply appreciative of. He hasn’t had vodka this good since his Babu died.

“Wait, so _that’s_ why you can speak Russian?” Clint asks. Natasha's been idly making daisy chains and Clint is dripping in them. “Your Grandma was Russian?”

“Yes?” Bucky squints at him in confusion. “I thought you knew this.”

“Clint is not always the most observant man,” Natasha cuts in distractedly. She’s making daisy chains of dandelions now. They’re bright against Trip’s skin.

Clint doesn’t even deny that, just squints at Bucky a little longer before shrugging.

“I did also just take it in college because it was an easy grade,” Bucky adds. In fact, it’s basically a fluke that Bucky’s so good at Russian anyway. It’s not like it was spoken in his house _tons_. He just got weirdly but unsurprisingly obsessed with old USSR space race shit and Babu would give him all these books about it because she was delighted that someone was taking an interest. Never mind that Babu had left Russia as soon as the Communists came to power.

Those old books were also how he’d gotten interested in mechanics and engineering too and Babu coming to his graduation was one of the last outings she managed before she died. He still misses her. She’d’ve liked Natasha.

She probably would have hated Clint though. Babu was awesome in many, many ways, but Bucky was very aware that she was pretty homophobic.

“You ever visited?” Trip asks.

“What? Russia?”

Trip nods.

“Once, on a college trip. Did all the regular tourist things,” – he waves his hand – “Red Square, St Peter’s Basilica, Hermitage Museum, that sort of stuff. It was cool, but I’m not sure I’d ever go back. Maybe to Eastern Russia but…” He trails off, then shrugs. Eastern Russia isn’t _really_ Russia, which is probably why he’d go there. He likes the language and the culture, but Russia is also… well, _Russia_. There’s an awful lot he doesn’t agree with.

“Our college trip was to Silicon Valley,” Sharon says, gesturing to indicate Natasha as well. “Not, like, Apple or anything, but still. It was pretty cool.”

“Capitol Hill,” Trip says with a grin. “Obviously.”

Trip, as far as Bucky is aware, studied politics at Georgetown and now works for the Mayor’s office. The romantic part of him wants to think he and Sharon met at some civic meeting discussing mass transit and how to make the city more accessible to those on lower incomes. He’s fairly sure they met through Tinder or Bumble or something though. Not everyone has a work meet-cute.

Trip looks at Clint expectantly.

“I didn’t go to college,” he says, completely blasé.

“Oh?” Trip asks. “What did you do instead?”

Clint grins at him. “Fucked the queer population of San Francisco.”

“…Oh,” Trip says again, now looking completely lost.

Sharon laughs and drops a kiss on his ear. “Ignore him,” she says. “He’s just being a dick.”

“I am being a dick,” Clint agrees, kicking Trip’s shoe gently with his own. “Though I’m also not _lying_. I really didn’t go to college.”

“And you really did fuck the queer population of San Francisco?”

Clint shrugs. “I mean, a fair amount of them, I guess. And the straight girls, obviously.”

Natasha rolls her eyes with a grin and Bucky can’t help but laugh. In a way, he always feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; for the moment when something in his brain suddenly goes _no, this bothers you now_. But it never has, and he can’t work out why. Maybe he’s just not possessive in the way people think you should be in relationships. Maybe that’s all it is. But as long as he can wake up at least three times a week with either Clint or Natasha pressed against him, as long as he can keep a toothbrush in each of their bathrooms, as long as he gets to see them puffy from sleep or content over dinner or angry about work, he doesn’t care that sometimes they’ll pick up folk who aren’t him and fuck them in beds he sometimes sleeps in.

The fact that Clint’s slept with a large proportion of the queer population of San Francisco is mostly just A Thing to Bucky, perhaps with the occasional side order of Kinda Hot.

“But I also worked a bunch of different jobs, bartending and bouncing and shit. Learnt a whole load of stuff. Don’t have to go to college to learn.”

“I didn’t mean – ”

“I know you didn’t,” Clint interrupts Trip with a smile. “I’m just saying. Me and school never really did get along anyway; I don’t even know what I’d’ve studied. Plus I couldn’t afford it.”

“Hell,” Bucky says, “the only way I could afford college was because the Army and Stark Industries paid for my degree. All my folk’s money went on Becca.”

“What about Ruth and Kat?” Natasha asks curiously.

“Ruth is like Clint – she was never gonna go.” Even the _idea_ of Ruth at college is hilarious to Bucky. She’d _hated_ school; the structure of it, the cliques, the assignments. To the surprise of absolutely no one at all, she’s planning to home-school Bruno. “Kat was never really interested; she wanted to get married and have the whole house, two point five kids, and a dog thing. My parents had college funds, but it was incredibly obvious that Becca was the brains of the family so I figured I’d get the Army to pay for me, and then Becca could go wherever she wanted. So she went to Columbia Law and then moved to Seattle for a change of scenery.”

Trip lets out a low whistle. “Columbia Law, eh?”

“Hell yeah.” Bucky is always happy to talk about how awesome his baby sister is, because she is _awesome_. “Graduated in the top five percent of her class too.”

Clint lets out a snort at that. “And my brother is a butcher,” he says with a laugh. “Oh hey, you know what he told me? He said he got picketed by vegans a couple weeks ago. _Vegans_ ,” Clint says with dramatic incredulity, “in _Waverley_. What the fuck?”

“What did he do?” Sharon asks through a mouthful of Doritos.

“Passive-aggressively offered them burgers.”

They collectively let out a chorus of snorts. Bucky’s never met Barney – same as he’s never met Edie or Clint’s step-dad Frank, or any of Clint’s family – but that sure does sound like the action of a Barton.

“Oh my god, guys,” Sharon says suddenly. “You know what I could go for? Chicken wings. Guys, we should go for _chicken wings_.”

They go for chicken wings.

Clint takes them to a tiny little Tex-Mex place, that doesn’t even have a name that Bucky can see, run by a toothless old man with a thick Mexican accent who Clint unsurprisingly knows by name. The spicy wings are absurdly spicy and the BBQ sauce is the best Bucky’s had in years and everyone eats more than they probably should, their faces sauce-smeared and their fingers sticky. They drink yet more beer, throw fries at each other like they’re twelve, and then they wave Sharon and Trip off at the Metro station and meander back to Clint’s with Bucky in the middle; hand in hand in hand.

“You’re right,” Clint says loudly, when they’re almost back at Slings & Arrows.

“I know,” Natasha replies, followed by, “About what?”

“Trip,” Clint says. “Cute smile, great ass.”

For some reason, this strikes Bucky as incredibly funny, and he presses his face into Clint’s shoulder to muffle the sound of his laughter, every step knocking his nose against Clint’s shoulder blade. He smells good – of grass and skin and BBQ sauce – and Bucky’s just drunk enough to push against him, full bodied, his mouth sliding over the skin at the base of Clint’s neck.

“God,” Natasha says from his other side, “you’re cute.”

And then she presses in too, wrapping her arms around them both, and they just stand there breathing each other in, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Wrapped around each other like they’re the only ones who matter.

Unfortunately, others apparently don’t agree. Clint gets shoulder-barged none too gently by some dudebro who mutters, “Move asshole,” while his Barbie girlfriend glares at them through make-up heavy eyes. In probably the most stunning display of in-sync-ness Bucky has ever been a part of, all three of them blow the couple a kiss and a wave at the same time, shit-eating grins firmly in place. And then, at the couple’s resulting scowls, Clint takes both Bucky and Natasha by the hand and, laughing, they return home.

By the time they’ve made it to Clint’s door, Bucky’s idly fantasising about a casual make-out session with Natasha, or perhaps sucking Clint’s dick. Something nice and relaxing that involves one, if not both, of his partners naked; nothing strenuous, nothing athletic, just quiet, casual appreciation. With his mouth. He’s so involved with his fantasy – a sure indication that he’s definitely drunk enough – that he completely misses Danny opening his apartment door, which results in Bucky _maybe_ letting out a muffled yelp of surprise when he speaks.

“Hey Clint – oh shit, sorry James.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky replies, hand on his chest in a vain attempt to stop his heart jack-rabbiting. What is it with today and people scaring the crap outta him? He flaps his free hand to indicate Danny should continue.

“Er…” Danny gives Bucky one final worried glance before continuing. “Can I speak to you, Clint?”

“Yeah, sure.” Clint drops his keys into Natasha's palm, giving her hand a little squeeze before pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “Lead the way.”

The two of them disappear into Danny’s apartment.

“You okay?” Natasha asks, amused.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky flaps an impatient hand at her. “Today just seems to be scare-the-crap-outta-James day. C’mon, I wanna take these jeans off.”

Once inside Bucky locates his sweats from earlier and emerges from the bathroom to find Natasha sprawled inelegantly across the couch, arm across her face.

“Mm,” he hums as he crawls over her, “perfect.”

He nudges at her arm with his nose, pressing kisses to her collarbone, her neck, her chin. Alcohol is blurring his edges, making his grip slightly more insistent, his mouth more eager. Plus, Natasha is laid out beneath him like a feast. Bucky only has so much self-control. But –

“Ugh, James. No.” Natasha pushes him away, her hand to his face making him sputter and laugh. “I’m too full for your shenanigans. And you taste like BBQ chicken.”

“Tasty, tasty BBQ chicken.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “If you want to be useful, you can rub my feet. Maria’s shoes are a bitch.”

Bucky sighs theatrically, but sits up, easing Natasha's – or Maria’s, apparently – slingbacks from her feet and pressing his thumbs into her arches. Natasha sighs and stretches, pointing her toes. Her nails are painted a beautiful shade of turquoise. Bucky might have to steal it sometime.

Suddenly, Bucky honest to god giggles.

“What?” Natasha squints up at him, questioning.

“Have you – ” He laughs again, remembering the one time he did this and how embarrassingly it went. “Have you ever mistaken Danny for Clint?”

See, Danny and Clint look eerily similar. Sure, Clint is taller and (in Bucky’s opinion) far better looking, and Danny’s hair curls when it grows long enough, and their eyes are different shades of blue, but they’re strangely similar nonetheless. They have a similar way of moving, and they tilt their heads the same way when they smile, and they stand in similar ways when they’re exasperated. Plus, obviously: they’re both white and blond and male. Bucky probably wouldn’t know half these things if Danny didn’t spend so much time on his phone berating people – often in Chinese – while pacing the landing between his and Clint’s apartments, but seeing as Danny does exactly that, pretty often, Bucky has had plenty of opportunities to learn.

And to occasionally greet him believing he’s Clint.

Natasha laughs, bright and happy. “Oh God, so many times.” She grins. “I once saw him on the street. When he didn’t reply to me when I was calling Clint’s name I figured – well, it’s Clint; his hearing, yeah?” Bucky nods. Clint’s hearing aids are good, but background noise is still a bitch so busy streets can be a problem. “So I just… went up to him and slammed my hands down on his shoulders.” Natasha laughs some more. “Dunno who was more embarrassed.”

“I told him I’d suck his dick if he helped me carry some shit upstairs.”

Natasha's eyes are saucer wide. “You did _not_.”

“I didn’t even know who he was at the time,” Bucky says with an embarrassed grin as he swaps to her other foot, “just that he was very much Not Clint.”

“Oh God, _James_.” She laughs with delighted incredulity, hands pressed against her face. “That’s terrible. I’ve never been _that_ bad.”

“His girlfriend was there too.”

“ _James_.” Natasha's tone is reaching hilarious levels of scandalised and Bucky can’t help but feel proud. His abject embarrassment might as well be good for something. “Poor Colleen.”

“Yeah, it was pretty bad.” He drops Natasha's foot, tracing his fingers over her ankle, up her calf, down and over her heel again. Christ, she’s so _pretty_. He tips his head against the side of the couch, peering up at her through his lashes.

Her lips twitch in amusement. “Bedroom eyes aren’t going to make me any less full, kitten.”

“Ugh.” Bucky groans and slumps across her lap. “Worth a try, I guess.”

Natasha hums in reply, sinking her hand into his hair, her nails a dull pain against his scalp. Bucky almost purrs, and he can feel the tension leech out of his shoulders. Natasha tugs and Bucky allows himself to be rearranged until he’s in Natasha’s preferred position of being draped across her like a blanket, head pillowed on her chest. Clint is far too fidgety to allow her to do this, but Bucky loves it. He could lie here all day if she let him.

He threads his fingers through her free ones and drifts.

The slam of the door causes Bucky to jump and he realises that he was on the verge of falling asleep. As was Natasha, if her quiet grumbles are anything to go by.

“Aw.” Bucky becomes aware of Clint leaning over the back of the couch and hears the sound of him giving Natasha a kiss. “Look at you two. Did today tucker you out?”

Bucky can’t manage more than a half-hearted glare at Clint’s baby-voice. Not that it matters anyway; Clint can’t see his face. Thankfully, he feels Natasha's hand leave his hair to swat at Clint, and the sound of Clint’s answering laugh. At least someone’s displeasure has been noted, even if it hasn’t been taken all that seriously.

“What did Danny want?” Natasha mumbles, shifting slightly under Bucky.

There’s no answer, not verbally, but suddenly Natasha's body beneath him is strung with tension, the fingers in his gripping tight.

“Clint?” she asks, her tone laced with something like trepidation, something bright and anxious and excited. Bucky sits up.

Clint is grinning; a mad grin, wide and full of teeth, so happy he looks like he’s a step away from vibrating out of his skin.

Bucky looks between them, completely at a loss.

“Guess who’s moving in with his girlfriend?” Clint asks.

Bucky would guess Danny, but that doesn’t seem like a statement to elicit such a dramatic response. Natasha, however, looks _thrilled_.

“Holy shit,” she says.

“Holy shit,” Clint agrees, his grin not dimming in the slightest.

“It’s finally happening?” Natasha asks.

Clint nods. “It’s finally happening.”

Natasha lets out a very un-Natasha-like sound – a little _eep!_ of joy – and scrambles up and over the back of the couch to throw herself into Clint’s arms. He laughs and catches her, spinning her around once, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Um,” Bucky says eventually, once it’s clear neither Clint nor Natasha are planning to enlighten him any time soon, “ _what’s_ finally happening?”

Natasha slithers down Clint’s body and his hands catch on her dress, briefly exposing pale thighs, the curve of her ass, her black panties. “Oh God,” she says, reaching for his hands and pressing a kiss against his knuckles, “we never said. Fuck, Clint. We never _said_.”

“Never said what?”

He’s trying not to be worried, he’s fairly sure he doesn’t need to be, but _still_.

“Last June,” Clint says, leaning against Natasha's side and taking one of Bucky’s hands into his own, “Nat and I made a…”

“Decision,” Natasha supplies. “We guessed Danny would want to move out at some point, probably due to the whole Rand Meacham thing – ”

“ – though I don’t think it’s got anything to do with that actually,” Clint cuts in, “I think Colleen just asked – ”

“ – and when he did,” Natasha continues, “we thought that… I should take Danny’s apartment.”

“And then,” Clint says with a smile and a squeeze to Bucky’s hand, “if you like,” and he gives Bucky the sweetest crooked smile, “you can come too.”

Bucky stares at him, completely lost for words. He’s silent for so long a little frown appears on both Clint and Natasha's faces.

“I know your place is important to you,” Natasha says cautiously which, okay, is true, but it doesn’t stop his place from being a dump, “so we understand if you say no. We just…”

“Didn’t want you to think you weren’t included in this,” Clint finishes. “‘Cause you are, kitten.”

“You’re… asking me to move in with you both,” Bucky says slowly.

“Yes.”

“Into _both_ apartments; this one and Danny’s. We’ll all live on this floor.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll move out of my shitty Queens apartment with its bad tiling and breezeblock shelves and ratty couch.”

“And your memories of getting better,” Clint says. “Of creating your own routines and looking after yourself after a really traumatic experience. Yeah, if you want to.”

Natasha squeezes his hand again, giving him a hopeful smile, and if Bucky didn’t already know he loved them, that fucking statement would have sealed the deal. Because his apartment in Queens is categorically a shithole; it has only bare minimum furniture and the shower is dodgy and the lock always sticks. With his job at Stark Industries he can easily afford somewhere much, much better. But that apartment? The man he is now was built brick by aching brick in that apartment, on a foundation laid by Steve and Peggy and Wanda, and his parents and sisters, and his SI-sponsored therapist. He _became James Barnes_ in that apartment. But getting better also includes knowing when to let go.

Bucky’s slightly alarmed to find his eyes are filling with tears. God, how embarrassing.

“Fucking hell, guys,” he says, pulling them both close. “Of course I’m want to. Jesus Christ.”

Natasha's answering laugh is giddy and full of joy, and she pulls back far enough to kiss him directly on the mouth – BBQ breath apparently forgotten – while Clint plants a sloppy kiss almost on his ear.

“I love you guys,” she says, once she’s let Bucky go again. “So much.”

Bucky grins and tugs at them both until they have no choice but to clamber onto the couch and the three of them puppy-pile together, so close it’s difficult to tell whose limbs are where. It’s hot and wonderful and slightly uncomfortable, and Clint’s still in his Chucks, the soles digging into Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky doesn’t want to move ever again, he’s so content.

God. _God_. Who would have guessed he could ever be this happy?

Eventually Natasha forces them to move, citing loss of feeling in her arm, and they jostle each other as they get ready for bed, elbowing each other for the mirror and stealing each other’s sleep t-shirts. Natasha ends up with Bucky’s Clash t-shirt, so Bucky steals Clint’s Hawkeye State shirt, leaving Clint with Natasha's cami. He opts to go shirtless. No one complains.

“Hey,” Clint says once they’ve climbed into bed, Natasha tucked into Bucky’s arms while his back is pressed against Clint’s. “Do you know what this means?”

“What?” Natasha mumbles, already falling asleep. Apparently today _did_ tucker her out. Poor baby.

“We can finally get a dog.”

Suddenly, Natasha is apparently entirely awake. “ _No_ , Clint. We’re not getting a dog.”

“A cat, on the other hand…” Bucky says.

He laughs as Natasha elbows him in the gut, but Clint presses a kiss to his shoulder blade so he reckons it evens out.

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Clint says, like he’s going to be reasonable and let Natasha have her say instead of just coming home from the pound one day with some mutt.

“After I take Steve to I Scream,” Bucky says.

“Sure, after that then.”

Natasha lets out a beleaguered sigh, but Bucky can tell she’s smiling. He presses a kiss to her nape and feels the tell-tale movement of Clint removing his hearing aids, the shift and pull of the mattress, before Clint slings an arm about his waist, his breath hot on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky smiles to himself, feeling safe and loved, buries his face in Natasha’s hair, and falls asleep.


End file.
